Part Second
Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played,And the four strings of his violinWere spinning like bees on a day in Spring.The notes rose into the wide sun-moteWhich slanted through the window,They lay like coloured beads a-row,They knocked together and parted,And started to dance,Skipping, tripping, each one slippingUnder and over the others soThat the polychrome fire streamed like a lanceOr a comet’s tail,Behind them.Then a wail arose—crescendo—And dropped from off the end of the bow,And the dancing stopped.A scent of lilies filled the room,Long and slow. Each large white bloomBreathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer,And the hum of an organ tone,And they waved like fans in a hall of stoneOver a bier standing there in the centre, alone.Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.Like smoke they rose from the violin—Then faded as a swifter bowingJumbled the notes like wavelets flowingIn a splashing, pashing, rippling motionBetween broad meadows to an oceanWide as a day and blue as a flower,Where every hourGulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed,And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,And the prows of the fishing-boats were spatteredWith spray.And away a couple of frigates were startingTo race to Java with all sails set,Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,And wide moonsails; and the shining railsWere polished so bright they sparked in the sun.All the sails went up with a run:“They call me Hanging Johnny,Away-i-oh;They call me Hanging Johnny,So hang, boys, hang.”And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,And the ship heeled over to the breeze.He drew her into the shade of the sails,And whispered talesOf voyages in the China seas,And his arm around herHeld and bound her.She almost swooned,With the breeze and the moonAnd the slipping sea,And he beside her,Touching her, leaning—The ship careening,With the white moon steadily shining overHer and her lover,Theodore, still her lover!
Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes,And slowly floatedA single note which spread and spreadTill it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,And noises shivered throughout its length,And tried its strength.They pulled it, and tore it,And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it.Then a wide rentSplit the arching tent,And balls of fire spurted through,Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.One by one they were quenched as they fell,Only the blue burned steadily.Paler and paler it grew, and—faded—away.Herr Altgelt stopped.
“Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?I think I’m in good trim. Now let’s have dinner.What’s this, my Love, you’re very sweet to-day.I wonder how it happens I’m the winnerOf so much sweetness. But I think you’re thinner;You’re like a bag of feathers on my knee.Why, Lotta child, you’re almost strangling me.
I’m glad you’re going out this afternoon.The days are getting short, and I’m so tiedAt the Court Theatre my poor little brideHas not much junketing I fear, but soonI’ll ask our manager to grant a boon.To-night, perhaps, I’ll get a pass for you,And when I go, why Lotta can come too.
Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soupTo whip me up till that rehearsal’s over.You know it’s odd how some women can stoop!Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discoverIf it’s his money. But she lives alonePractically. Gebnitz is a stone,
Pores over books all day, and has no earFor his wife’s singing. Artists must have men;They need appreciation. But it’s queerWhat messes people make of their lives, whenThey should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, thenHis wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once.I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce.”
Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and wentInto the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn windFlirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent,Audacious wind it was, now close behind,Pushing her bonnet forward till it twinedThe strings across her face, then from in frontSlantingly swinging at her with a shunt,
Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,Dismayed to find her clothing tightly boundAround her, every fold and wrinkle crushingItself upon her, so that she was woundIn draperies as clinging as those foundSucking about a sea nymph on the friezeOf some old Grecian temple. In the breeze
The shops and houses had a qualityOf hard and dazzling colour; something sharpAnd buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.The city streets were twanging like a harp.Charlotta caught the movement, skippinglyShe blew along the pavement, hardly knowingToward what destination she was going.
She fetched up opposite a jeweller’s shop,Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns,And necklaces of emeralds seemed to dropAnd then float up again with lightness. BrownsOf striped agates struck her like cold frownsAmid the gaiety of topaz seals,Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels.
A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sardDelighted her. And rings of every sizeTurned smartly round like hoops before her eyes,Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarredTo spokes and flashing triangles, and starredLike rockets bursting on a festal day.Charlotta could not tear herself away.
With eyes glued tightly on a golden box,Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue,Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocksOf shades and lustres always darting throughIts level, superimposing sheet of blue,Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching.She started at the words: “Am I encroaching?”
“Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thoughtWe were to meet at three, is it quite that?”“No, it is not,” he answered, “but I’ve caughtThe trick of missing you. One thing is flat,I cannot go on this way. Life is whatMight best be conjured up by the word: ‘Hell’.Dearest, when will you come?” Lotta, to quell
His effervescence, pointed to the gemsWithin the window, asked him to admireA bracelet or a buckle. But one stemsUneasily the burning of a fire.Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire.Little by little she wooed him to her moodUntil at last he promised to be good.
But here he started on another tack;To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose.She vainly urged against him all her lackOf other trinkets. Should she dare to useA ring or brooch her husband might accuseHer of extravagance, and ask to seeA strict accounting, or still worse might be.
But Heinrich would not be persuaded. WhyShould he not give her what he liked? And inHe went, determined certainly to buyA thing so beautiful that it would winHer wavering fancy. Altgelt’s violinHe would outscore by such a handsome jewelThat Lotta could no longer be so cruel!
Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways.If she went in with him, the shopman mightRecognize her, give her her name; in daysTo come he could denounce her. In her frightShe almost fled. But Heinrich would be quiteCapable of pursuing. By and byShe pushed the door and entered hurriedly.
It took some pains to keep him from bestowingA pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses,The setting twined to represent the growingTendrils and leaves, upon her. “Who supposesI could obtain such things! It simply closesAll comfort for me.” So he changed his mindAnd bought as slight a gift as he could find.
A locket, frosted over with seed pearls,Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck,Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curlsShould lie in it. And further to bedeckHis love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck,The merest puff of a thin, linked chainTo hang it from. Lotta could not refrain
From weeping as they sauntered down the street.She did not want the locket, yet she did.To have him love her she found very sweet,But it is hard to keep love always hid.Then there was something in her heart which chidHer, told her she loved Theodore in him,That all these meetings were a foolish whim.
She thought of Theodore and the life they led,So near together, but so little mingled.The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead,And the fresh wind about her body tingled;The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled;Charlotta held her breath for very fear,About her in the street she seemed to hear:“They call me Hanging Johnny,Away-i-oh;They call me Hanging Johnny,So hang, boys, hang.”
And it was Theodore, under the racing skies,Who held her and who whispered in her ear.She knew her heart was telling her no lies,Beating and hammering. He was so dear,The touch of him would send her in a queerSwoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearningFor Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning
Street after street as Heinrich wished it so.He had some aim, she had forgotten what.Their progress was confused and very slow,But at the last they reached a lonely spot,A garden far above the highest shotOf soaring steeple. At their feet, the townSpread open like a chequer-board laid down.
Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest,Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chainAbout her neck. She treated it in jest,And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain.Then suddenly she felt as though a strainWere put upon her, collared like a slave,Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave.
She seized the flimsy rings with both her handsTo snap it, but they held with odd persistence.Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strandsOf hair which had been loosened. Her resistanceMelted within her, from remotest distance,Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near,And giving way she knew him very dear.
For long he held her, and they both gazed downAt the wide city, and its blue, bridged river.From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blownStrands of her hair, and tied them with a sliverCut from his own head. But she gave a shiverWhen, opening the locket, they were placedUnder the glass, commingled and enlaced.
“When will you have it so with us?” He sighed.She shook her head. He pressed her further. “No,No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me,” and she triedTo free herself and rise. He held her so,Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go.“But you love me,” he whispered, with his faceBurning against her through her kerchief’s lace.
Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knewThat what her husband lit this other manFanned to hot flame. She told herself that fewWomen were so discreet as she, who ranNo danger since she knew what things to ban.She opened her house door at five o’clock,A short half-hour before her husband’s knock.